


i dream all year, but they're not the sweet kind

by frostings



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostings/pseuds/frostings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hero of Ferelden arrives at Skyhold with her cousin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. arrival at skyhold

**Author's Note:**

> Context: This whole thing was inspired by a drabble by siribear (siribear.tumblr.com/post/104277373224/more-amell-arrives-in-skyhold-with-her-cousin). What if Amell had been at Skyhold to investigate the disappearance of the Grey Wardens?

Varric warns them to keep a low profile, but Amell is reasonably sure that outside her Grey Warden armor, she can pass off as one of the refugee mages in Skyhold. Ten years are enough for people to forget her face, even for Fereldens, and she can’t say that she’s displeased. She rather likes her anonymity. She’s heard her cousin complain about her infamy more than once; it doesn’t help that mercenaries and the random puffed-up noble who spots her in a tavern always end up wanting to defeat Hawke to gain some sort of prestige.

There are people Amell wants to talk to other than the Inquisitor. The Grey Warden the Inquisitor mentioned is of particular interest, especially if he has managed to remain behind when all the other Wardens have all but disappeared. She also needs to speak to Leliana, to press her old friend for more information on what she knows about the disappearance of the Wardens. Varric has also mentioned that Grand Enchanter Fiona was in Skyhold, and Amell wants to speak to her as well, the only person alive who has been freed from the Taint.

Amell passes through one ruined chamber to another, and it’s quiet. Too quiet, and it gives room for the buzzing in her head. The halls finally give way to a rather large hall, and it almost doesn’t register that there is someone else in there, surveying the room’s damage.

“Cullen?” the name slips out before she can stop herself. The buzzing grows louder—remnants of a half-remembered past life (Tower walls, First Enchanter Irving’s proud smile, Jowan spilling blood as he reveals himself to be a blood mage) come rushing back.

He startles at the sound. She supposes that the shock on his face mirrors her own. “Amell?” he says, stepping closer, the cold sunlight glinting off his armor. Armor, she notes, that is devoid of the Templar heraldry, replaced by the Inquisition’s all-seeing eye. He looks like he’s seen the dead come back to life. He has seen it before. And she is dead, in a way. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

Amell wonders if he still sees the demons when he looks at her. “I came with my cousin,” she says, “to investigate the disappearance of the Wardens. You didn’t know?”

He sighs deeply, the impatient sigh of a man who clearly doesn’t like being left out on the loop. “I was aware that Hawke was here, but Varric didn’t mention the Warden-Commander would be coming as well.”

“Officially, I’m not here. Had a letter sent to the Inquisition and everything, explaining my absence. It should arrive in a few weeks,” she explains. She figures there’s no point trying to be secretive when the Inquisitor would be sharing that information soon enough. She doesn’t want him to ask more questions on where she’s been (Everywhere? Nowhere? She’s been running scared for the longest time) so she turns the question to him. “How about you? What are you doing here?”

He gives her that look—a look she knows so well, that tells her that he knows exactly what she’s doing. It’s probably a Templar thing, or all the pranks she’s pulled with Jowan under his watchful eye. He answers her question, anyway. “I’ve been given the role as Commander for the Inquisition’s troops by Seeker Pentaghast after I left the Templar Order. We’ve been trying to gain traction and build a stronger army ever since the explosion at the Conclave.”

She smiles faintly. It must not have been easy, leaving the Templars. But Cullen’s life, as far as she knows, has been a life full of hardship. She can still remember the pride he had as a younger man wearing the armor. That boy is all but gone, however.

She glances away. If she looks too long at him, it rushes back—the Tower, blood dry on the floor, the smell of rot, Cullen on his knees, crying out to the Maker, sunken eyes, asking her to kill mages.

_Cullen! Don’t you recognize me?_

_Only too well._

“Seeker Pentaghast chose well,” she says softly. She wants to stay, linger, ask him questions. But he probably doesn’t want to see her, and this encounter should be uncomfortable enough for him. She clenches her fists. “I should go. It’s—it’s good to see you, Commander Cullen.”

And she means it. She hopes he knows it. She has seen the Red Templars.

There’s a look that flashes across his face, but she can’t quite read it. “It’s good to see you as well, Warden-Commander,” he says quietly.

Amell shakes her head, fights against the buzzing sound that preys on her doubts. She knows better than to think he means it. 


	2. a talk between old friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has lots of talking! Talking is good! I also missed my sarcastic Hawke like a LOT.

The first thing Amell does when she sees Leliana is to hug her old friend tightly, quietly, for a full minute. She breathes in the smell of leather, feathers, and lavender—a strangely comforting scent. Or maybe it’s just Leliana, making her feel better by just existing.

"My friend," Leliana says softly as they part. "It’s so good to see you."

"When I heard about the Conclave, and later, Haven, I worried about you," Amell admits, running her hands up and down Leliana’s arms, as if to reassure herself of her friend’s existence. "When Hawke mentioned coming here, I knew I had to come as well, so here I am." She grins weakly. "Please don’t be mad I didn’t tell you in advance?"

Leliana makes a face and swats her arm playfully. “Oh, you horrible! I can’t believe you’d think I’d be angry with you for that. I’m not your wet-nurse.”

Amell smiles, for real now. “I knew killing Marjolaine had its perks.”

"Putting down an Archdemon also counts pretty high up there," Leliana says mildly as she gestures for Amell to sit down. The redhead busies herself with making tea in neat movements, graceful in everything she does.

"I can’t believe you get tiny cakes up here," Amell comments as she helps herself to one.

"Maker bless devout Andrastrian bakers," Leliana murmurs in agreement as she sits across Amell. They sit in companiable silence for a little while, looking out at the snowy mountains.

"So shall I begin? You did make the tea, after all." Amell offers.

"By all means. I have been searching for you and Hawke for the better part of a year. It would be nice to get some answers." Amell can’t help but wince at that. "But I am not angry with you. Truly." Leliana reaches over to grasp her hand. "I’m just glad you’re alright."

"I disappeared on you, but it was something that had to be done. I remember telling you about Weisshaupt giving me orders to hunt down Morrigan."

Leliana nods. “I would have been worried if it had anyone else had to confront Morrigan; she is a powerful mage. Caught the attention of many that way, even though she wanted to keep a low profile.”

Amell closes her eyes. The buzzing grows louder. Morrigan’s face, sorrowful.  _Where are you now?_

"I found Morrigan, Leliana. But she was not forthcoming about the nature of the Eluvian. And when the time came…I couldn’t. Not to her. Whatever she was doing, she had helped me during the Blight. She saved my life. Alistair’s life. So I let her go."

Leliana sighs deeply. Amell knows she and Morrigan had always been at odds with each other, and had even gotten into petty squabbles even in the middle of skirmishes against darkspawn. What a funny thing to remember.

"I suppose Weisshaupt was not happy with you after that."

"I told them she had escaped. They didn’t believe me, of course, and ordered me court-martialed." She laughs dryly, rubbing her forehead. "I survived the Archdemon, and apparently Grey Wardens hold a grudge against their kind not dying when they’re supposed to. It wasn’t long before they figured that my survival of the Archdemon’s death and Morrigan’s presence were connected."

She remembers finding out a few hours before her arrest, escaping like a thief in the night from her own Keep, collecting tomes and parchments, shame and anger burning through her. “I made a friend among the Dalish, and travelled with them for a while to evade the Wardens. The Wardens made it sound like I disappeared, because it sounded a little less bad than ‘we wanted to lock her up in a lightless cell in Weisshaupt and she ran away because duh’ right?”

Leliana nods. “The Wardens are exceptionally talented at keeping their secrets.”

"You don’t have to tell me twice."

The spymaster shifts in her seat, a look of worry on the usually-impassive face. “And Hawke? How did this family reunion come along, if you were lost among the Dalish?”

_Vir samahl la numin. Vir dirthera._

"Not very happily, I’m afraid." Hawke appears as if on cue, looking years younger without her armor on. "Cousin, I’ve been looking for you all over. I was afraid you’ve run away with the Inquisition’s dashing Commander. Ooh are those tiny cakes? Can I have some?"

"A knock would have been sufficient, serah," Leliana looks visibly annoyed. Hawke is, after all, a rogue of no small talent to be able to evade Leliana’s sharp ears. Still, Amell is glad for the distraction, if only to hide her reddening cheeks at Hawke’s suggestion.

"So… No tiny cakes for me, then?"

"I would not be so ungallant to deny a guest their tiny cake," Leliana huffs.

Hawke seats herself at the edge of Leliana’s neatly-made bed and pops a pastry in her mouth. “So there she was, the Hero of Ferelden, practically a Dalish herself save for the tattoos, when I, Hawke of House Amell, find her in the forest with the little horned ponies and butterflies.”

Amell sighs in exasperation.  ”Long story short, she stole my phylactery from Maker knows where, because of reasons.”

“ _Good_ reasons, may I add? You do know Fenris right? Allergic to mages? And he had to stand in a room full of phylacteries sifting through each one, poor thing.” There’s something a little strained in Hawke’s voice when she mentions Fenris, but she continues. “I was looking for Wardens when I was looking up the red lyrium, and my long-lost cousin, savior of my country, was for some reason missing, so I though I’d be getting more answers if I looked for her specifically.”

"You must not have taken it well," Leliana looks amused despite herself.

"I thought she was some rogue templar turned Warden! She kept flashing the Amell crest to me like it meant something and shouting, Hey we’re cousins! Cousins!" Hawke laughs heartily at the memory. If fireballs were funny. Which she supposes, to Hawke, is.

"I could’ve approached you with more finesse, that is true." Hawke takes Amell’s cup and sips from it. She makes a face. "Too much sugar. Anyway, I found her just in time before she went to Tevinter to look up darkspawn studies."

"I wanted to find a way to be rid of the Taint," Amell admits baldly. Leliana blinks in surprise, but says nothing. "At first, it was out of spite, disillusionment with the Wardens. This was not the Wardens I envisioned when I was first recruited. But the more I read up on texts, the more I was worried.  I also intercepted missives Avernus was sending to Weisshaupt and while he focused more on the untapped power of Grey Warden blood, the darker possibilities were of a concern."

"And what are these darker possibilities?" Leliana asks.

Amell wants to confide in her old friend, just like old times, but she cannot. Not with this. Leliana cannot do anything to help her on this path, and she is already carrying so much on those strong shoulders. Hawke gives her a sympathetic look. “I cannot say for certain yet, but the rise of these intelligent darkspawn is something Weisshaupt is ignoring for reasons unknown. The fact that the Wardens of Orlais and Ferelden have disappeared with no investigation from the First Warden tells us we are all but forsaken. I have to look for my people, even though I no longer command them.”

"Yeah, so don’t be too sore on her for sitting out the mage-templar war. She’s been busy doing stuff. Things." Hawke quips.

Amell rolls her eyes. “Don’t believe her.  _Just one more group of mages to save, Amell please?_ I thought Fenris was going to dump you right there and then.” Hawke tries to play it off, but Amell knows her well enough to know that the war weighs on her cousin heavily.

"He would never!"

Leliana giggles. “You two are so cute.”

"But enough about me. How have you been doing?" It seems strange that the past few years could be summed up so neatly. It seems like a lifetime ago, strange Elvish songs in her ear, the comfort of the deep forests, away from everything and everyone. But even that couldn’t last. If Hawke hadn’t found her, Amell knows the clan would have left her behind because of her Taint, because of what she wants to find out about the Taint. Ariane had been very sad to see them go, however.  _If you see Finn, tell him I said hello, will you?_

"Nothing that you don’t already know," Leliana finally replies. Amell wonders if Hawke’s presence forces her to be a less forthcoming. But Leliana is of the Inquisition now, and she must respect that.  

"I’m sorry to hear about the Divine." Amell says, and she means it.

"I am as well. We are trying our best to ensure that this Inquisition fulfills her vision of it, her vision of a better world," Leliana replies, quickly brushing away a tear. "But you don’t know how it makes me happy to see you alive and well. Sometimes it feels like we save the world only to have it try to tear itself apart again, and it gets very trying."

"We’ll do it one thing at a time. Your Inquisitor’s no slacker, as I see it."

"She’s so cute too! Elves with big swords always get to me," Hawke almost claps her hands with glee.

"We’re fortunate Clan Lavellan is one of the more open-minded of the Dalish. We would be lost without her, as you two arrived a little late," Leliana smiles wryly at this.

"It’s Hawke’s fault. Entirely her fault."

"Hey! You’re the one who’s been prancing around in the forest…!"

"Leliana is  _still talking,_ Hawke.”

"Children, please." Leliana says jokingly, but turns serious again. "Perhaps it turned out better that you two  _were_ late. If you weren’t, Hawke might have been at the Conclave, and Amell might have been captured by the Wardens. The Maker works in mysterious ways.”

"Odd way to cheer us up, Sister Leliana, but alright." Hawke frowns.

Amell suddenly feels very tired. Leliana means well, but it’s been a while since she’s been… _exposed_ to Chantry rhetoric, and her fuzzy brain can only take so much.

_He sings the Chant of Light so beautifully, so right in all the ways I’m wrong._

A clatter of porcelain, smashing of glass follows, a shout of surprise. Amell finds herself thrown on the floor, Hawke standing protectively over her, daggers drawn. Leliana is shouting.

"Hawke! Don’t!"

"Keep that thing away from us!" Hawke roars, all mirth gone from her voice, the Champion of Kirkwall and the terror of the Chantry in the flesh. "If he as so much takes a step, I swear I will end him."

Leliana puts up a placating hand. “No need for violence. This is no demon. This is Cole.”

"A demon with a name. I’ve heard that one before," Hawke snarls.

"Cole is…well, he is not a demon. He is a spirit. In the form of a young man. It’s a little hard to explain, but he means well. He just has a bad tendency to…gatecrash." Leliana is apologetic, and looks pained at the loss of her fine china.

"He appeared out of nowhere!" Hawke protests, but she lowers her blades slightly.

"There were so many ribbons, tying everything up. I had to follow the ribbons," the boy murmurs. He blinks owlishly, in frank surprise. "You let the tiny cakes fall to the floor!"

Everyone gawks at him, and as Amell sits up, there is knocking on the door.

"Is all of Skyhold about to descend upon my bedroom now?!" Leliana snaps. "They better be the good-looking soldiers at least!"

"Leliana? Is everything alright?" Cullen’s voice calls out from the other side of the door.

Hawke shrugs. “Eh. At least it’s the pretty one.”

"It’s alright, Commander. Come in," Leliana replies resignedly. The little picture of mayhem that greets him causes Cullen to stop in his tracks.  

"Cole," Leliana says, as if that explains everything.  Cullen doesn’t question it, so the name probably does. Cole. Cole? Why is that so hard to remember? It’s just one syllable. What was his name again?

"Warden-Commander, are you alright?" He reaches out to help her up, but Hawke swats the hand away and helps Amell up herself.

"She’ll be fine."

Amell nods. “No need to stand on ceremony here, Cullen. And yes, I am fine.”

He stares at her for two seconds as if to ascertain she is, and turns to Hawke. “We’re ready to meet you in the War Room.”

Hawke nods. “I’m sorry if all this secrecy has reduced you as runner, Commander. Although I’m not sure how secret we really are with this ruckus going on.”

"You might have singlehandedly undermined my position here," Leliana agrees, although a little jokingly. She smiles at Amell. "Good job."

Amell can’t help but smile at Leliana’s conspiratorial smile. It feels a little like old times.


	3. crestwood

If she looks back, the regrets will catch up on her, slow her down. Hawke has told her as much, and that one lives in a world where her regrets hound her like dogs on a chase.

The night is calm, quiet save for the voices that drift up, snatches of conversations. The Commander's room at the battlements is lit aglow by candlelight. She did not expect to see him here, of all places.

"Long day?"

"We should've gone ahead to Crestwood, like you suggested." Amell chuckles.

"It would be worth it if you got what we came here for." Hawke leans against the balcony, tired more than she would like to admit. It’s strange, the different families she’s come to know through the years, after she lost the one she had in the Circle. And now she had someone who was actually bound to her by blood. Blood. That strange thing, that life force and old magic that must not be casually meddled with.

"Fiona's blood? Yes. She is not a big supporter of the Wardens after they kicked her out, but strangely, when I mentioned that this would mean healing the King, she agreed. After being banished, a rebel mage would be the last person I'd expect to be a royalist."

"Fiona's weird. Mages are weird. No offense." Hawke shrugs. "No blood magic you hear?"

"None. I promise. You know how I feel about it."

Hawke looks levelly at her. Amell imagines she must look a bit similar when she does the same. Their physical resemblance is not obvious, but they are there, like the way Hawke scrunches up her nose when she is displeased. "I do. But Grey Wardens resorted to blood magic to grant them their abilities. I'm afraid it's only a matter of time before you will have to resort to the same to reverse engineer it." There's no judgment in Hawke's voice. Only worry. Her cousin worries too much, Amell thinks. "Damn Weisshaupt and their secrets. They should be here, helping us."

"They're not my problem right now, but I soon will be theirs." Amell says darkly. She looks out in the darkness, wonders what lurks out there.

"But how are you feeling right now? The whispers, do they bother you?" Hawke says softly.

"They are quiet now," Amell says truthfully. “It does not take the form of a song, nor am I experiencing that strange nostalgia for the days before the Taint, as I have read some Wardens have. It’s more of a...despondency. Lots of what-ifs running through my head. What if I did this instead of doing that, that sort of thing. I’ve always had thoughts like these, but this time it’s a bit harder to shake off.”

“Despondency.” Hawke echoes, sighing deeply. “Despair can be a powerful thing. I know that firsthand. Difficult to talk anyone out of it, too, no matter your good intentions. With times like these, you can’t exactly blame them.”

“They are Wardens, and should not be drawn into political wars like the mage-templar war. I agree, though, it’s not like current circumstances are exactly encouraging. You can feel it in here, too.” The soldiers’ faces in Skyhold are those of shell-shock, and she knows that too well. Shivering under the sheets, no layering, no source of heat could stop. She hopes the Inquisitor will find some way to bolster the spirits of her troops.  

“And if Corypheus has somehow used an _emotion_ to turn the Grey Wardens into his plan...well, shit.”

“Let’s hope Stroud has better news for us.” Amell says.

"Speaking of which... This Grey Warden, Blackwall? Did you get to speak to him?"

Amell frowns a little bit. "Yes. The Inquisitor told me where to find him, and I did, but he didn't provide any useful information."

"Oh? How so?"

It shames Amell that she should know so little about the Wardens, the actual men and women who join the company to fight against the Blight. But she's had little time to interact with the Orlesian Wardens, both during her time in Amaranthine and after. She had overseen the Joining for a few, people she had called friends, and it had been as gut-wrenching as any Harrowing. She made the Wardens as she knew it, and has had little time to reconcile what she knew with what was real.  

"He says he's been traveling alone for a few years now, conscripting. But when I asked how many he's had conscripted, he said he let more than a few go because there was no real Blight. His story is... Full of holes, confusing, clearly hiding something. And... I couldn't sense him."

Hawke frowns, looking a little confused. "Sense him? What do you mean?"

"Strictly confidential Warden stuff, but after a few years with the Taint, you start sensing other Wardens, the way you do with darkspawn. They... Feel different, but it's there, like a fine silk string that ties you to them. There was no such thing with Blackwall." He had been cagey as well, Amell remembers, vague answers with an adamant denial of knowledge what happened to the other Wardens. "There might be reasons for this, but finding that out isn't my priority right now."

"The more I hear of the properties of this Taint, the more I want you to be rid of it," Hawke murmurs. "What do you plan to do with him, then?"

"He doesn't know about Weisshaupt's standing order to arrest me, so that's something.” She sees Hawke’s look, and quickly adds: “I didn’t tell him I was supposed to be in jail! Anyway, as I see it, he's the Inquisition's creature right now and if he wants to stay on, then so be it. Maybe it's better that way."

Hawke nods. Night deepens all around them, and the conversations below break up little by little, replaced by the distant howling of mountain winds. She can pretend for a little while that the world is alright, that mages and templars and ordinary people out there aren't hurting. But she can only pretend for so long.

"I wish I could do more,” she whispers, gazing at the glowing green of the night sky’s scar. Once upon a time, she had been a heroine. She could do anything. But now, she could only gaze at the night sky and pray. “What if we had been at the Conclave? Would it have made any difference?”

“Does it really matter? That’s a thread that runs nowhere, like asking yourself if things could’ve been better if you let the Templars take Anders,” Hawke says. Still, there is a bitterness in her voice, a drop of blood in the milk.

“I suppose it doesn’t,” she doesn’t want to bring up Hawke’s own regrets, so she feigns yawning. “I’m exhausted.”

Hawke nods. “I’ll leave you to it, then. We have a journey tomorrow, after all.”

“Goodnight, cousin.” Amell hugs Hawke tightly, hoping that it will be enough to reassure her friend.

\----------------

Crestwood turns out to be every bit of the wet hellhole it was promised to be, and Amell’s glad it’s Hawke’s turn to loot the remains of the walking dead they ran into when they first arrived.

“Cailan and Anora’s faces on the coins; these are the people who drowned during the Blight,” Hawke announces as she pockets the valuables she finds. “Poor bastards.”

Amell shivers, although it is not from the cold. “Let’s try to take out as many of these things before we meet up with Stroud. It’s the least we can do.”

“I agree. Good news is that the Inquisitor’s promised to have a foothold in this place as soon as possible,” Hawke says, cleaning her blades before sheathing them. “Better not call attention to ourselves, though. Besides, it’s not like we can do anything about _that_.”

She means the rift in the water, glowing eerily in Crestwood’s perpetual dark. Amell knows the story of Crestwood, the people lost in the lake because of darkspawn machinations. She closes her eyes and reaches out to the darkness, feeling out if there are darkspawn that might have amassed following the region’s troubles. She is relieved when she comes up empty.

“If you’re done with your Wardening, can we get a move on?” Hawke asks.

They trudge in silence for half an hour. Hawke occasionally ensures that they leave no tracks, but the rain helps in covering up where they’ve been. Leliana had just managed to inform them in advance that Grey Wardens have been spotted in Crestwood looking for Stroud, much closer on the scent than Amell likes them to be.

“There,” Hawke points at something in the distance. “That’s where the cave should be. Hopefully, Stroud will be in there.”

“He is,” Amell says, in that certainty that she knows irritates her cousin sometimes.

“Great. I hope he has snacks because I’m starving.”

“We just had lunch!”

“I killed four shambling corpses! Girl’s gotta eat.”

“Right.” The answer comes a beat too late, which catches Hawke’s attention.

“Cousin,” Hawke pauses and peers at her with concern. “Are you alright? You seem to be distracted since Leliana’s letter.”

“I’m fine,” Amell says curtly, hoping that will be enough to silence Hawke’s questioning.

“Is it about Cullen, then?”

Leliana had mentioned, in passing, about the hidden difficulties she was having with Cullen’s erratic behavior. As one of the advisors, Cullen is an integral part in the success of their endeavors. But Amell can’t be worried about Cullen; not now, not ever. Amell knows this, she’s been telling herself that ever since she first saw him as an apprentice in the Circle Tower, barred away from her by virtue of the Templar armor.

But she finds herself admitting to worry, still. “I didn’t know he stopped taking lyrium.”

“Leliana’s wrong telling you about that, but I guess Leliana tells you everything.”

Amell shrugs. Varric gives Hawke the same kind of privileged information, but she’s not going to complain to her cousin about it. “It’s not like we can do anything about it.”

They finally reach the cave. It’s cleverly hidden among the rocks, a perfect smuggler’s hideout, with just enough space for one person to slip through. Amell’s just glad for an excuse to stop talking about Cullen, as well as getting out of the rain.

“How do we let him know we’re here? Do Wardens have a secret knock code that you have to bang on the walls or something?”

“Something like that,” Stroud announces his presence by stepping out of the shadows. He bows, formal, like the Orlesian noble he used to be. “Warden-Commander. Champion.”

Amell smiles. “I’m not sure you should call me that, Stroud.”

“I’m not sure he should call me that, either!” Hawke agrees. Stroud looks at the both of them, obviously not expecting the either of them to be so, well, strange.

“Stroud was supposed to take over as Warden-Commander of Ferelden in an unofficial capacity,” Amell explains to Hawke. “But they never caught me, so I guess that left him in a flux. Sorry, Stroud.”

“So we all don’t know what to call each other. Wonderful.” Hawke is already stripping herself of her wet cloak. “Weird introductions out of the way, can we get started already?”

“And the Inquisitor...?” Stroud asks, looking behind them, as if the Herald of Andraste was lurking behind them.

“We got a head start, but not by much. They should be here soon,” Hawke explains. They follow Stroud deeper in the cave, which gives way to a sparse space, occupied only by the odd wooden chair and a table already littered with parchments and maps. A smuggler’s skull insignia, bone white with a slash of red over the eyeholes, serve as the cave’s decor. Charming. The two women seat themselves opposite the Orlesian Warden.

“It’s probably best they’re not here yet,” Stroud begins as he picks one of the parchments and smooths it out to hand to Hawke. “I was looking into the red lyrium as you requested, but had precious little time to make a full inquiry in it before I had to go into hiding. This is the best I could find, an account of encountering red lyrium in an exploration of one of the abandoned Dwarven thaigs during the Steel Age, although they don’t call it such. They made a detailed observance of it, though.”

Hawke quickly skims over the report. “The Wardens didn’t take this lyrium back for further studies?”

“Apparently, they had a bad feeling about it and left it alone.” Stroud says. Hawke raises an eyebrow. “What? It’s true. They said it in the report.”

“Wardens were so much wiser back then,” Hawke sighs, but Amell is only half paying attention to her.

“Clarel ordered your arrest? Why?”

Hawke holds up a hand. “Before we get into that, I think we have guests. Rogue senses and all,” she says by way of explanation. “Thought only you guys have that huh? I’ll be right back.” She heads out without further ado before either Warden could reply.

Stroud looks at her and nods. “It’s good to see you, Warden-Commander. When that warrant of arrest was sent out, I feared the worst.”

“It’s going to take a lot more than a warrant to end me,” Amell replies, wishing she sounded more confident than just...sad. She _knows_ Stroud, knows him to be a good man, and beyond reproach, as Wardens go. “I hate seeing you being on the same boat, Stroud. Truly.”

Stroud smiles faintly at that. “Thank you, Warden-Commander. If it helps any, I felt regret that Weisshaupt burned bridges with the one who ended the Fifth Blight.”

The clanking of armor and shuffling of feet announce the arrival of the Inquisitor, along with some of her companions. Amell and Stroud stand up to welcome the newcomers, and she’s brought along that other Warden, whose blood is quiet from the song, the apostate elven mage,  and the young man that intruded on in Leliana’s room.  

“Warden, may I introduce Inquisitor Lavellan,” Hawke announces. Stroud strides over and shakes the Inquisitor’s hand firmly.

“Well met, Inquisitor. I am at your service.”

The Inquisitor inclines her head slightly. “Well met.” She jumps right into business. “I am grateful that you took the chance to meet with us. The Inquisition needs all the help it can get, but I understand the Wardens have been having troubles of their own.” She shifts on her feet, and glances at Hawke, and then back to Stroud. “I wonder though, might those problems have anything to do with Corypheus?”

Stroud exchanges a look with Amell. “I am afraid so. When Hawke slew Corypheus, Weisshaupt was only too happy to consider the matter put to rest. But as the Warden Commander may have already posited with you, Corypheus may have survived such seemingly fatal wounds in the same way an Archdemon can.”

“She has,” the Inquisitor confirms. “But how? Why? What _is_ Corypheus? How can he have this power?”

“My investigation only turned up a few clues to what exactly he is, but by then, every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.” Stroud turns away from them as he says this, pretending to fix something on the table. Amell feels her stomach drop at this revelation.

“What?” Amell approaches Stroud and puts one hand on his shoulder to force him to look at her. But even before he could, she already knows that what he is saying is true. “It cannot be. That is impossible!” Her mind is already racing, going through the possibilities wondering if this could also be affecting the Ferelden Grey Wardens, Alistair..?

“The Calling is a bad thing, I recall. But I don’t think you told me about _that._ ” Hawke’s voice is hard and slightly accusing.

Stroud looks apologetic. “It was a Grey Warden matter. I was bound by secrecy.” Amell could almost hear Hawke inwardly cursing, _fuck your secrets._

“Is the Calling some sort of Grey Warden ritual?” The Inquisitor asks.

“The Calling tells a Warden that the Blight will soon claim him. It starts with dreams. Then comes the whispers in his head. The Warden says his farewells and goes to the Deep Roads to meet his death in combat.” Or in the case of female Wardens, death by a suicide attack, Qunari explosives or blood magic that would rip their bodies to tiny shreds. The risk of being taken by the darkspawn is something that the women must take into consideration. Amell shivers at the thought.

“And every Grey Warden in Orlais is hearing that right now? They think they’re dying?” Hawke asks.

“How is this possible? It’s been documented that the crawl of the Blight in a Grey Warden factors in how long you’ve been living with it, as well as your active exposure to it when fighting darkspawn!” Amell interjects heatedly, unable to control herself. “This is basic information that every Warden should have known!”

“Unfortunately, it seems like the Wardens have long been functioning in this disorganized manner for a few years now, Warden-Commander. The information is not the same everywhere; it depends on the region, which Commander you’re talking to. It seems like our brothers and sisters have been functioning with this ignorance for a while.” The Inquisitor looks a bit taken aback at her outburst, and Amell notices that Blackwall looks a little surprised as well. “Regardless, the Orlesian Wardens do believe that they are all dying, and this is most likely because of Corypheus.”

Stroud steps forward, Warden armor glinting in the firelight. “If they are all convinced that they are about to die, if the Wardens fall, who will stand against the next Blight? It is our greatest fear.”

“Fear and desperation that Corypheus took advantage of.” Hawke bites out bitterly.

The Inquisitor digests this information for a moment, then directs her question to Amell and Stroud. “Is the Calling they’re hearing real? Or is Corypheus mimicking it somehow?”

Stroud shakes his head. “I know not. Even as a senior Warden, I had heard only the vaguest whispers of Corypheus.”

“And perhaps you have heard even less of the Architect,” Amell says. All eyes in the room turn to her. “Darkspawn can be intelligent, even capable of speech, but rarely are they able to totally rein in their savage natures. But I encountered one darkspawn that resembles Corypheus more than the creatures of the Blight. He called himself the Architect, and he was able to mobilize whole hordes under his own will.”

“Better and better,” Hawke mutters under her breath.

“He said that he was could speak to the darkspawn, draw them to him, become loyal to him. Unfortunately, this is also possible with the Wardens, who he was able to turn to his cause.” Hawke noticeably winces at this, at the thin line between Warden and darkspawn.

“Maker’s breath!” Stroud looks visibly disturbed by this. “Then, if Corypheus can have such a deep access into the Wardens’ minds...they most likely believe this Calling to be real, and will act accordingly. That at least is certain.”

 “You said all the Wardens are hearing the Calling. Does that include you?” The Inquisitor turns to look at Blackwall. “And also you, Blackwall?”

Stroud’s voice is quiet. “Sadly, yes. It lurks like a wolf in the shadows around the campfire.”

“Warden-Commander?” the Inquisitor prompts.

“I have just recently entered Corypheus’ sphere of influence, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it will begin anytime soon,” Amell admits. “I think it might already be beginning, by making the shadows in my mind bigger than they are.” However, knowing how long Stroud has been living with the Blight, he might actually be starting to hear the strains of the song.

“The creature that makes this music has never known the love of the Maker, but...at times, I almost understand it.” Stroud says, voice grim. “In any case, we must find out what Corypheus has done and end it. This cannot stand.”

Blackwall shakes his head at this. “I do not fear the Calling, and worrying about it only gives it power. Anything Corypheus does will only strengthen my resolve.”

“Let’s hope the other Wardens will hold on to that outlook, Blackwall,” Amell presses her lips, suddenly dry. “He is a magister and a darkspawn, and he is tied to the Blight, to the Wardens. This must be how he has managed to create a false Calling.”

“And this false Calling has pushed them to desperation? That won’t end well.” the Inquisitor says, and Amell is not quite happy with the judgmental tone she takes on.

Stroud begins pacing back and forth in restless movement, weighing how much information he should give out, how much he should keep to himself. “You might think their desperation foolish, but consider that we are the only ones who can slay the Archdemons. Without us, the next Blight will consume the world. And the Blight _will_ come, believe me on that.” He finally stops pacing and sighs resignedly. “Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood ritual to prevent future Blights before we all perished.”

A blood ritual? Amell startles at this. “What are you saying?”

“I didn’t get to hear more of what she was planning other than where she intends to do the ritual. When I protested the plan as madness, my own comrades turned on me.” He doesn’t elaborate on how he escaped, but Amell can guess at his regret. He picks up a map and indicates a spot on the paper. “The Grey Wardens are here, in the Western Approach.” Stroud nods at Amell. “Meet us there, and hopefully we will find answers.”

“Alright,” the Inquisitor seems satisfied with the discussion. “For your own safety, it’s best you go on ahead of us, as we did before. You can restock your supplies at one of our camps before you go.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“Good,” Amell picks up the map, studying the fastest route to get them to the tower in the Western Approach. “We will not linger, Inquisitor. We can rendezvous with your men there and send word once we arrive.”

She expects the Inquisitor to go, but the Dalish elf remains. “No. I think you should return to Skyhold.”

“Excuse me?” For the first time, Hawke actually sounds shocked.

“What now?” Amell can’t quite believe her ears.

The Inquisitor may be small in stature, but the great blade on her back and the authority in her voice says otherwise. “You are a powerful mage, and there is blood magic involved. No matter how you look at it, you will be a person of interest to Corypheus. I’d rather you not reveal yourself to him all too soon.”

Amell feels herself go cold. The gall. Who does she think she is? “You cannot command me! Those are my people out there! The fact that blood magic is involved makes me more qualified to deal with it.”

The Inquisitor seems unfazed by this. “Go back to Skyhold and work with Leliana on how we can undo Corypheus’ thrall on the Wardens. I understand that you had already had some research underway. His attention is diverted on the other Wardens; we can use that to our advantage.”

Amell looks wildly at Stroud, then at Hawke, for backup. “You cannot agree to this!”

“I’m sorry, Commander. There is...wisdom in the Inquisitor’s words,” Stroud says reluctantly. “Hawke is capable, and so am I, if I say so myself. It is perhaps better if we widen our areas in searching for a solution to our problem.”

Amell looks at her cousin, pleading. Hawke shrugs. “Don’t hate me, but I have to agree. You’re a hell of a fighter, but maybe we need your brain a little more than your brawn right now. And if there’s anything we learned about the Conclave, it’s not to put all our eggs in one basket.”

No, no, no, this can’t be the answer. She has to fix this. It’s her fault, all her fault. Maybe if she had stayed, answered Weisshaupt’s court martial straightforwardly, maybe...

Stroud finally steps forward, and puts both hands on her shoulders. “Commander. Trust in the counsel of your friends.” Somehow, this calms her. She hardly knows Stroud, and yet, his words finally clear the clouds of doubt. She looks over at her cousin.

“I’ll be fine,” Hawke says, as if reading her mind. Stroud gives way as Hawke strides over to give Amell a big hug. “We’ll get to the bottom of this alright?”

Amell nods, trying to measure out her breathing. “Alright.”

“You fear the song, but there is other music at work here. You must trust it,” the pale-haired young man says. Cole? His name is Cole. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s somehow reassuring.

She looks over at Stroud. “Take care of my cousin, Stroud. And yourself, as well.”

“Commander,” Stroud takes it as an order, solemnly resting one fist against his chest. The Inquisitor finally motions for them to go, and Amell stays behind to ponder her next move against Corypheus.


	4. an agent of the inquisition

Amell rides with Scout Harding’s party on the way back to Skyhold. The dwarf seems to trust her Inquisitor and takes Amell on with no further questions. As far as Harding is concerned, Amell is simply Solona, a girl without a family to her name, one of the mage rebels the Inquisition have taken as allies.

She helps quietly: making healing potions, treating the wounded in the Inquisition camps that they pass en route to Skyhold. They navigate the landscape dotted with Venatori and red templars, and she keeps herself out of the fighting, casting barriers and bodily flinging away enemies with her magic, the guise of a mage with middling magical skills. She loots Venatori corpses carefully, hoping that Tevinter texts would reveal some truth about their master.

When they finally arrive at Skyhold, Amell is absolutely exhausted. She finds herself back at the quarters that have been assigned to her previously, and collapses in bed in an ungraceful heap. Her dreams are uneasy, restless. She is chasing down Jowan down the hallways, and at first it’s a game and she is laughing, but later it becomes more sinister. Everything darkens, and she is following trails of blood, Jowan’s faint laughter in her ear.

Amell wakes up with a gasp. It’s dark out. She’s slept most of the day away. She shuffles to her bag to rummage for rations, but it’s all run out. She has to go outside if she wants to be fed. With that thought in mind, she refreshes herself with the water provided in a nearby basin, as she changes into her plainer robes. She loosens her hair about her shoulders, and quietly slips out of the room.

Skyhold is a magnificent place, even in the midst of its reconstruction. Even in the early evening hours, she sees dwarves running to and fro, muttering calculations about the weight the stone can take. There are a few Orlesian nobles about, lightly sneering and admiring their surroundings in equal measure. Amell realizes she doesn’t know where to go, has no idea where the kitchens are.

Luckily, she spots Harding going down the battlements. “Scout Harding!” Amell waves. The dwarf cheerfully waves back and makes her way to her.

“Enchanter Amell,” Harding greets. “How can I help you?”

“Well...this is embarrassing...but I’ve missed my dinner.”

“Oh, you poor thing. The kitchen’s just closed, and I’m afraid Cook only opens it by orders from any of the Inquisitor’s advisors.” Harding is apologetic. “I know, Cook’s a bigshot alright? But the Tavern’s open, though, I’m sure the bartender can scrounge up something for you.”  

“That’s very kind,” Amell says, smiling a little.

“Hey, no problem. Least I can do after saving me from that one Venatori,” Harding says. They walk into the tavern, and it’s already warm and crowded with a mix of soldiers, tourists, and red-cheeked pilgrims who don’t look quite devout with their pints of ale. It’s a cheerful sight.

Amell sits next to Harding at the bar. “Hey, get my friend here some of your finest grub!” Harding tells the bartender. Then to Amell: “It’s just bread and cheese, but it’s delicious when you’re as hungry as a nug that hasn’t eaten in two hours.”

“Thanks, Harding.”

The dwarf grins. “Don’t mention it. We didn’t get to talk much on our way here did we? I don’t know how the Inquisitor’s friends do it, they’re always chatting up a storm even when they’re in the middle of killing things.”

She remembers her own little gang of misfits being able to do the same, and that makes her smile. “It’s an acquired talent, I guess.”

“I’ll have to acquire that soon,” Harding says with a laugh. Two pints of beer are placed in front of them, foaming on top. They look really good.

"So, what's your story?" Harding asks.

Uh oh. "Like any other mage. People were hunting me. I ran." Both true and false.

"Huh. Could've sworn I've seen you somewhere before."

"I have a generic face." Sadly, lying had never been her strong suit.

"Well, you certainly look better than King Alistair here," Harding takes out a brass coin to show her Alistair's face--or at least what's supposed to pass as him, if he'd been trampled over by several brontos.

Amell laughs wryly as realization dawns on her. "Nothing escapes your notice, does it Scout Harding?"

"That's my job," Harding grins as she tucks the coin back in her pocket. "I was born and raised near Redcliffe. Lots of people escaped to our village. They were all talking about you. It made an impression."

"I doubt it will remain a secret for so long, but I'd appreciate your discretion on this."

"They won't hear it from me." Harding makes a zipping motion across her mouth. "Actually when I realized who you were, I got so nervous. I didn't know what to say to you."

"From what I've heard of you, you're a lot braver than that."

"Well, we're talking now aren't we?"

Harding got her there. Her bread and cheese arrive, and Harding goes up to say hello to some other people in the tavern. The singer plucks her lute, and somewhere in the corner someone was arguing that plaidsweave is a definite fashion _don't._

Eating alone in a tavern somehow reminds Amell of the people she had left behind in Vigil's Keep. The tavern there was a little bit like this, too, a roaring fire and loud friends. She had only been able to inform the others of her escape hours before the fact. They did not take it well, and Amell remembers Velanna's anger, her proposal to fight the Grey Wardens coming for her.

Cooler heads prevailed, and in the end Weisshaupt left the Keep to Nathaniel's care. They didn't have enough Wardens to arrest all her friends and keep Vigil's Keep as an active fortress. They also didn't have enough evidence to tie them to Amell's escape, and Weisshaupt was only too happy to leave Vigil's Keep alone and the rest of the Amaranthine Wardens free.

She wonders how they are doing. She had sent Nathaniel a letter before leaving Crestwood, warning him to keep to themselves and to avoid the Orlesian Wardens, or indeed any unknown Wardens for the time being. Not that Weisshaupt had ever sent _anyone_ other when she first arrived and later, when she left. Stroud served as Ferelden’s Warden-Commander when Amell was on the run, and he said that he attended Clarel’s summons on the Ferelden Wardens’ behalf. Whether or not Weisshaupt was aware of the current goings-on, most of the Ferelden Wardens have kept clear of Clarel’s plans. In any case, Nathaniel was naturally suspicious, and would do good by her instructions. She wishes he were here; past his anger, Nathaniel gave sound and level-headed advice.

Level-headed, of course, being the last thing she felt right now.

Harding returns when she's eaten the last of the cheese. There is a large kiss mark on her cheek. “You alright? You look like you’re about to pick a fight. Food that bad, huh?”

Amell isn’t even aware that she’s frowning and quickly masters her features. “No, it was alright.”

The scout turns serious, bright-red kiss mark notwithstanding. “I’m fairly certain you’re not here for the bracing mountain air. I’m sure that whatever it is, it’s important. I’d like to help.”

“Information,” Amell says. Strange considering how the Skyhold is geographically remote from everything else, but it seems to becoming more of an hub, regardless. “Old, ancient, information.”

Harding considers this for a moment and then brightens up when an idea comes to her. “I think I have just the person for you. He’s brilliant, and if you’re in the market for those moldy old texts, he’ll probably be able to help out a lot.”

She probably means the elven apostate Amell’s been seeing around, but Harding surprises her by sticking a thumb out to point at someone behind her shoulder. “That’s him.”

As if on cue, the dark-haired man sitting next to them on the bar begins a slow, oddly graceful descent towards the floor. Amell stands up and catches him on time.

The man is still awake enough to break into a coy little grin. “My hero.”

* * *

 “So what’s your story?”

They’re sitting outside, the Tavern a faint mess of noise far away. Amell lets the question hang in the air as she gently presses mana into Dorian’s shoulder, to burn away some of the cloudy effects of alcohol, to wake him up a little.

“Everyone has to have a story, huh?”

“No one finds themselves in this magnificent, ancient freezer without a story,” he says, watching her carefully. “I actually called this place freezing. I should turn in my Tevinter gentleman’s club membership.”

“You have those in Tevinter?”

“Well if they did, I would’ve turned it in long ago, anyway.” Amell sits back and watches as Dorian shake his head vigorously. “Not exactly my preferred method of sobering up, but this is a little better than waking up at the bar. Again.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, although he hasn’t exactly thanked her.

“So you’re her, aren’t you?” He leans on one knee, now studying her with full interest. “The Hero of Ferelden.”

“Ferelden has more of its fair share of heroes,” Amell says, trying to be vague, staring at her knuckles.

Dorian laughs , derisive. “Oh _please_. You had the audacity to chase away my well-earned drunkeness, I think I’m owed a little bit of forthrightness here. And besides, you’ll be needing my help, won’t you?”

She finally levels her gaze at him. “Alright. I am. But there’s no victory in confirming something you already know, don’t you think?”

“I try to find my victories wherever I can.” Dorian stands up and makes a small show of fixing his gloves. “So can I assume that you’re here to talk about your great matter.”

There’s no use trying to go around it, so Amell simply nods.

“I have no idea what it is, but you’re an interesting person, from what I’ve heard, so I’m assuming it’s interesting.” He pauses, and for someone who had nearly just passed out, he is amazingly poised, regal. “I’m afraid that even though I’m sober enough to walk straight, I’m not sober enough for...whatever it is you needed to consult me for.”

“Fair enough,” Amell smiles faintly, deciding that she likes Dorian.

“But if it’s ancient Tevinter things that you’d be consulting me for, I do have another mage in mind for you.” Dorian smiles bitterly, and it’s almost a little wicked, the way his teeth glint in the dark.

“Who is it?” This ought to be interesting.

“My former mentor, Magister Gereon Alexius.”

* * *

The rookery is empty save for Leliana and the ravens cawing loudly from their cages, black eyes reflecting nothing. It’s not quite dawn yet, and everything is illuminated by the candles set in front of the spymaster’s shrine to Andraste.

For the first time in her life, Amell doesn’t know what to say to her friend.

She watches from afar, watches Leliana go through the small rituals, kneeling down, hands clasped, murmuring prayers. She’s seen this so often before, Amell could probably do it herself. No amount of exhaustion or trauma could have deterred Leliana from doing these rituals ten years ago, when they were still battling darkspawn. But now her friend seems burdened, or is she just imagining the slight stoop of her shoulders, as if carrying some invisible weight?

Her friend stands up before she finishes her prayers, waiting for her to speak.

“Leliana...” Amell begins. She can’t see her friend’s face, thinking of other words for apologies, sorry, _so sorry,_ repeating it in her head until it doesn't sound like a word anymore. She tries to go with the truth. “I don't even know how to begin.”

A pause. “You couldn’t have known,” Leliana is still looking at Andraste's statue in front of her. She does not even feign surprise, or pretend she doesn't know what Amell is talking about. Her ravens fly true. “How could you? They had turned on you as well.”

There hadn’t been enough time to mourn, to be there for Leliana. There had never been enough time, and before she knew it, ten years had passed and things had happened. Amell wants to apologize for that too, but there are no words for it, no condolences that could fill the emptiness of loss.

She remembers how Leliana had once spoken so admiringly of the Grey Wardens, how she had willingly joined their cause. And now this is how she is rewarded. One betrayal after another. Amell etches this fact on her heart, sword against stone. She won’t forget.

“The Wardens will answer for their part in the Divine’s death, I promise you.”

Leliana turns around then, and nods. There’s a cold fire burning in those blue eyes, but her voice is soft when she speaks. “I am clear sighted enough to know who the real enemy in this, but I appreciate the gesture all the same.”

She is still there. Her Leliana is still there, broken, but mending. Amell opens her arms, and draws her friend nearer, and they embrace, quiet and still, for a long time.

* * *

Leliana advises her, as the spymaster of the Inquisition, to forward her formal request to the other advisors.

“If it had been up to me, I would have no hesitation in giving you everything you need,” Leliana says as they walk towards the famous War Room. “But the advisors speak for the Inquisitor, and this is a request for the Inquisition.”

The great oak doors give way to a wide, airy room. The sun filters through the stained windows, illuminating the room and highlighting the ancient table situated in the middle. A detailed map sits on top of it, and two figures are hovering over it, speaking in low tones. They straighten up as Leliana and Amell walk in.

“Warden Commander,” Leliana begins. “I would like to introduce you to the advisors of the Inquisition. Although of course, you already know the Commander...”

“Of course,” Cullen inclines his head slightly before looking away.

“You haven’t had the chance to meet our ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet,” Leliana continues smoothly, ignoring Cullen’s curt behavior.

Josephine more than makes up for it. “Warden Commander Amell,” she says with a little flourish of her quill, as she bows a little. “It’s an honor.” She is a beautiful woman, Amell reflects, although younger than she had expected

“Lady Josephine,” Amell returns the courtesy with a small bow of her own. “I’ve heard good things.”

Josephine flushes with pleasure at this. “Thank you. I hope the Inquisition can help you with your request, Warden-Commander,”  she says, managing to get right on business without causing offense.  

“I hope you didn’t get into trouble on the way back to Skyhold?” Cullen’s voice cuts in, and Amell blinks at him in surprise.

“We encountered some isolated Venatori groups and red templars, but otherwise, it was uneventful. Scout Harding has the report if you’d like to know more details,” Amell says as she drifts nearer his table.

Cullen’s brow furrows a little, and he shakes his head as if to clear out something. “Forgive me, Amell, I didn’t mean to sound like I was asking for a report. I just wanted to ask if, well, if you were alright.”

Right. “I’m...I’m alright.”

Leliana steps forward and pushes a parchment across the table, breaking the awkward silence that follows. “Here. An official request from the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Agent of the Inquisition.”

“Agent?” Cullen echoes as he picks up the document.

“Not that anyone really asked, but I wish to be part of your cause,” Amell says, remembering how the Inquisitor baldly asked her to do her bidding. “She ordered me back here in Skyhold for further research on the thrall Corypheus has over my brother and sister Wardens.”

She knows they are informed, _all they do is stay up and strategize and worry and wait for the Inquisitor_ Harding’s voice in her head says.

Cullen takes his time to read it before passing it on to Josephine. “Am I reading this correctly? You would like to work with Alexius?”

Josephine digests the document’s contents with a trained eye. “Working with Alexius on a cure for the Taint? Wouldn’t this potentially require giving up Warden secrets?”

She’s sick of secrets, but she doesn’t say it aloud. “If it’s needed to further our cause, I see it as a necessary risk. My allegiance to Weisshaupt is... _complicated_ , so I'll just leave that to your own interpretation."

He looks up at her when she says the words: _our cause_ , but she can’t quite read the look in his eyes _._ “If I’m understanding this correctly, these experiments require no small amount of magic, and perhaps even blood magic?”

“In addition to looking more closely into blood with the Taint, namely, mine.” Well, since he’s already put it out there, Amell might as well be frank on the matter.  

Cullen shakes his head. “I cannot allow it. With the Veil so thin, magic has become wildly unstable these days. Too many things could go wrong, and we need to look out for the safety of our people.” Josephine bites her lip but says nothing, her silence an assent.

Amell expected this response, but she’s hit with disappointment anyway.

Leliana comes to her rescue. “I knew you might say that, so I have a proposal.” She points at an area on the map. “Josephine once mentioned a fortress in our vicinity, built by the House of Armitage. We sent a mercenary group, the Chargers, to scout it last month.”

“Your report said it was dilapidated but workable,” Josephine nods, remembering. “Much like Skyhold when we first came here.”

“More workable than dilapidated now,” Leliana says, smiling slightly. “My agents have been using it as an outlook post, and I’m familiar enough with the structure to know that it will be a good place to conduct your studies, away from prying eyes. More importantly, it is isolated enough should any accidents happen.”

Amell feels a flare of hope. “So...?”

“Alexius may have fallen from grace, but he is still a powerful mage,” Cullen presses on. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to have him out there where he can escape.”

“We can send the Chargers, or the Inquisition's people with them as a security detail,” Leliana counters. “Cassandra is here in Skyhold, and could take the lead. And the Warden-Commander is a powerful mage herself, if you need any reminding, Commander.”

“Even if he did escape, he will have to trudge in the snow for _days_.” Josephine pipes in before Cullen could even respond.

Cullen looks at the two women and shrugs. He sighs and rubs his temple, not even attempting to hide his frown. “It looks like I’ve been outvoted, Warden. I’ll have the jailors prepare the magister for his coming journey.”

“Thank you Commander. Josephine,” Amell smiles as she presses Leliana’s hand in gratitude. “I’ll prepare right away.” She glances at Cullen, but he is already picking up another document, one gauntleted hand curling into a fist.

“I take my leave,” Amell says, dropping her gaze.

Josephine waits for him to say something and finally coughs into her hand, embarrassed at Cullen’s snub. “Warden-Commander,” she says politely.

Amell can’t leave the room any faster. She tries to train her thoughts on the upcoming task at hand, and less on the pale, pained face of the Inquisition’s Commander.


	5. diversions

“I rather feel like a child waiting to see if his friend got permission from their parents to go out and play,” Dorian says as soon as he sees Amell walk out of the War Room. “Well?”

“Permission granted, Master Dorian, with some caveats.” Amell says as she falls in step with him. The sight of them draws curious stares and titters from the guests of the Inquisition milling in the main hall, but she hopes that they are for Dorian, and not herself. The man attracts attention whether he liked it or not. “Not anything major, but we’ll have a guard detail with us. Leliana mentioned an arcanist who can work with us for the things we’ll need for the experiments. Maybe two or three days before we can set off?”

“And Alexius?” Dorian prompts. “What about that part of our grand experiment?”

Amell waits until they are clear of the main hall, raising her face to the weak warm sunlight on her face when they reach the stairs leading to the courtyard. She wishes the light could clear the cobwebs in her mind, the buzzing in her head. “He’ll be coming with us, too.”

“Ordinarily, I’d say that was a terrible idea, but Alexius doesn’t really have a motive for leaving, sometimes even living. He just thinks suicide is such a waste of his precious Tevinter life blood, though.” Amell notes the tang of bitterness in his voice, forced to sound something like lightheartedness.

“We’ll need to speak to him, if just to get his mind in order for the task ahead.” Amell says. “I would ask you to do it, but I understand that your relationship with him is... complicated.”

“He did try and kill me with time magic that I helped him research on, but what is a bit of attempted murder between old friends? Besides, we still have one thing going for us,” he smiles in that winning way of his. “You.”

“Me?”

“Felix may be dead, but I have no doubt in my mind that Alexius still wants answers.”

“Oh?”

Dorian shrugs. “He’s quirky that way. But more importantly, he hates being stumped by unanswered questions, especially a question that cost him his son’s life. I had been helping him with his research on darkspawn, the Blight. Unsettling stuff, to put it lightly. Unfortunately, he had to hit a wall somewhere.” Dorian pretends to watch the sparring going on in the courtyard, but his eyes are distant, somewhere else.

“Is that why he approached the Venatori? He tried to look for other ways?”

“He didn’t have a lot of blood to work with. He had Felix’s, darkspawn, even, as well as the blood of other victims of the Blight, but he needed something more potent. Resistant. Grey Warden blood. Grand Enchanter Fiona’s blood had been of particular interest to him, but the Inquisitor muddled his plans.”

“But you said you went to the future,” Amell says as the men cheer on the winning soldier in the ring. “Where he won. Briefly. He had all the world at his disposal. He didn’t get answers then?”

Dorian winces at the memory of that dark future. “I wasn’t able to observe that Felix closely, but he was clearly not himself anymore. A ghoul, only under Alexius’ blood magic thrall instead of the Blight’s. It was no cure.” He sighs deeply and gestures for them to move on from the cheering audience. “He had been conducting experiments until the very end, he...” Dorian stops himself from saying more. “You would not want to hear the details of that, I imagine. Just take my word that he did not find answers even then.”

It’s disappointing, in a twisted sort of way, but Amell does not say anything aloud. Whatever Dorian had seen in that future, it had been disturbing enough for him not to speak of it easily. “Are you sure you want to do this, Dorian? It sounds like it’s all rather...complicated, given your history..”

Dorian laughs dryly at this. “It’s all been rather complicated before you came along, I’m afraid. You needn’t concern yourself on my account; I’ve been avoiding Alexius long enough. I think it’s about time we both tried to find a resolution to this, one way or another.” He seems to be speaking to himself as much as to her, trying to find courage and resolve. “I’ll speak to him, at least get his mind to order. You will be needing time to prepare. If you need any help, you’ll find me at the library. Or the tavern. If it turns out well, I’ll be at the tavern. If not, I’ll still be at the tavern anyway.”

Amell feels bad for him, she truly does. She knows what it’s like to be burned by a mentor she trusted, thinks of Irving and his easy treachery of turning her against her only friend. “Thank you, Dorian. For your help.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Dorian exhales loudly. “We have a long way to go.”

* * *

Leliana had mentioned about the Inquisition recruiting Dagna as their arcanist when Amell brought up the possibility of needing specialized equipment for her research. When Dagna’s name came up, it had been a pleasant surprise, and she was gratified that Dagna was just as happy to see her, alive and well. As always, Amell is struck by how far-reaching some of her past actions are. It seemed at the time the natural thing to do at the time to help Dagna, and had thought nothing of it, maybe just to help someone reach their dreams before the Blight engulfed them all. And now here she was standing in front of her, probably one of the finest arcanist in all of Thedas.

After the effusive hellos and Dagna’s brief telling of she wound up here (a simplified tale of tragedy, broken Circles and dashed hopes), they finally settle to creating the tools she needs for the task ahead.

Amell watches, entranced, as threads of blue light reach out in the air, glimmering, suspended, reaching out to each other to knot themselves gracefully, forming bonds.  There’s a buzzing in her head, different from the ones that plague her dreams, almost pleasant.

This is where she belongs, in her element, and she’s sure Dagna’s wide smile is reflecting her own. “That’s amazing,” she breathes.

“I got the idea from the ancient elven artifacts Messer Solas told me about,” Dagna says, flushing with pride. The blue threads of light finally form a small dome on the table, and Amell flicks out a wrist and watches, entranced, as a drop of water forms and reforms into a shard of ice. Another flick of the wrist and the shard breaks apart, flinging needles of ice into the blue barriers. The momentum breaks upon hitting the dome, falling uselessly on the tabletop.

“It’s amazing, Dagna,” Amell repeats. “And this rune can sustain this containment field for what, years, if you want it to?”

Dagna nods eagerly. “Uh huh! And nothing gets in or out, not unless you want it to, and even then, it won’t affect the barriers’ stability. The rune makes the magic echo within itself, but this magic is flexible enough to respond to your will, as is its nature. It’s just too bad we can’t extend the field into a bigger area, but...” her lively chatter falters.

Amell laughs, reaches out and plants both hands firmly on Dagna’s capable shoulders. “If there’s anyone who can puzzle that out, it’s you. But for now, this is perfect. Thank you.”

The arcanist smiles shyly. “The least I can do for you, after everything you’ve done to help me.”

Amell merely smiles in response. Another flick of her wrist and the containment field dissolves. It is a fascinating instrument. She thinks of Sandal, wonders how he would have perceived something like this.

“So,” Dagna’s voice drops into a confidential whisper. “You’ve met the Inquisitor, right? What do you make of it?”

Haritt the blacksmith clears his throat loudly, as if to remind them that he’s in the room with them.

“Make of what? The Mark? Oh.” Amell rubs her temple, trying to fight back what felt like a headache, if not for the faint buzzing sensation. She hopes Dagna doesn’t notice, but the dwarf is eagerly waiting to hear what she has to say. Amell can tell that the arcanist has been wanting to ask her opinion about it since she got here.

“It’s interesting, to say the least. It’s strange, but familiar. Like...seeing the sea for the first time. You know what water is, you’ve worked with frost magics, but...” Amell closes her eyes, and for a moment she’s transported to that moment when she did first see it. “But the sea isn’t just water. The breadth and enormity of it, the feel of the sea air. A whole world of unknowns. And the Inquisitor’s Mark, it’s like...she calls the sea.” Amell opens her eyes again and flashes an embarrassed grin. “I don’t know if that makes any sense. The Rifts are dangerous, yes, but it’s changed everything. Changed the world. Changed the mages, magic-users, whether we know it or not.”

Dagna nods, smiling wistfully. “Seeing the sea for the first time...it doesn’t seem so remote when you put it that way.”

The wistful smile clenches at something in Amell’s heart. “There’s so much more to magic than just wielding it, Dagna. Believe me. What you do here is amazing. You are worth more than twenty mages, believe me.”

Dagna blushes and pretends to busy herself at the table. “Thank you, Amell. It means a lot to hear it from you.”

The door to the Undercroft slam open and they both look up to see a dark-haired woman walk in. Amell knows by description that this is no other than the Seeker that Leliana has spoken of. The Seeker seems agitated, basing on the curt nod she gives Harrit and the determined gait of her walk. Amell feels like she’s about to be scolded for something, Cassandra looking so severe as she does.

Cassandra stops short a few steps away from her and rests one fist against her chest. “Warden-Commander Amell. Well-met. I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. I am sorry to disturb your work here, but I would like you to come with me.”

Amell glances at Dagna, but the arcanist seems as clueless as she is about the reason for the Seeker’s abrupt entrance. “We can continue this later, can’t we, Dagna?”

“Of course. I’ll be here.” Dagna reassures her. Nothing seems to dampen this girl’s spirits, not even with an admittedly intimidating Pentaghast in the vicinity.

“Good.” Cassandra turns to go, and Amell follows. It’s almost amusing how she’s found herself to be at everyone’s beck and call the moment she stepped in Skyhold. This isn’t Amaranthine anymore, and she’s not Warden-Commander, and everyone seems to like reminding her of it.

“I apologize for my rudeness,” Cassandra says, as if reading her thoughts. “I would’ve asked for a proper introduction from Leliana, but I need your attention on an important matter.”

“Of course. I am at the Inquisition’s service,” Amell replies, curiosity piqued.

Cassandra steers her away from the main hall and into one of the smaller hallways, a succession of doors opening and closing, guards and agents and messengers all milling about under the ancient stone. “I understand that you were trained as a spirit healer,” Cassandra says.  

Amell wonders if this is the Seeker’s way of small talk. “Um, yes. I was on that path for a while before the First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle took me on as an apprentice. He had other plans for me so I had to adjust accordingly. Happily for me, the study of arcane warriors are closely tied to spirit healing, so it worked out for me later on.”  

“He had plans for you to become a Knight Enchanter at the Chantry, if I recall correctly. A healer who can fight is someone anyone would want to be allied with in the field of battle.” Cassandra works out the narrative for herself.

Whatever had been her plans, her life before the Wardens seemed as ancient and remote as the paintings of Andraste on Skyhold’s walls. Irving had wanted her to be near to the Divine, to win some influence for the Ferelden Circle, but that didn’t matter anymore. That was long ago. “Yes, but those plans fell through, as you well know. May I ask, where these questions leading to, Seeker Pentaghast?”

The find themselves on the path towards the battlements, and Amell recognizes the building where the Commander’s office is housed. She notes Cassandra’s worried look. “You have furthered your studies on spirit healing since then?” Cassandra answers her question with another question.

Amell fights back an impatient sigh. “I had to. I was in charge of many lives. And I was looking for a cure for the Blight.”

Cassandra gestures for them to keep moving. “Then I hope that you can help us on this matter.”

Amell is about to ask for more answers when the sight that greets her in the office silences her on that matter. Cullen is on the floor, books and parchments in a mess around him. He is divested of his armor, writhing in pain, his face twisted into an ugly grimace. A soldier is crouched down next to him, fear plain on his face as he tries to hold the Commander down.

Cassandra’s shocked still for a second, obviously not expecting this when they arrived. “What happened?” she barks at the Commander’s companion, snapping into action.

“It’s gotten worse,” the soldier says as she and Cassandra hurry over.

“Is it the lyrium withdrawal?” Amell says. Cassandra’s dark eyes blink with surprise, followed by a nod of confirmation. The soldier makes way for her as Amell sits next to Cullen. His breathing is shallow, his skin cold and clammy. His eyes are closed, and she’s not sure if he is fully aware of what’s going on. She checks his pulse, and it’s a frantic rhythm. He lets out a little groan of pain.

Amell’s hands hover over him, unsure.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Cassandra’s voice is frantic. “Help him!”

“Give me a second!” Amell nearly yells back at her, all guise of politeness gone. She wishes Cassandra had given her at least some sort of indication of what she was going to walk into, but that is neither here nor there.

She prays that Cullen will find it in his heart to forgive her as she finally puts her hands on him, coursing magic through his body. His very bones seem to be parched, reaching out for the lyrium that he has denied himself, and she lets the healing magic take its place. Cullen’s reaction is almost immediate, calming down the spasms, numbing the pain. It’s not lyrium, and the pain would certainly be back, but for now this will do. Amell reaches for her pack and grabs a potion, Cassandra coming over to help Cullen sit up.

The two women look at each other. “How did you know?” Cassandra asks.

“Mages also get lyrium withdrawal when they use too much lyrium and not burn it off magic,” Amell lies. She doesn’t want to get Leliana into trouble. “It’s not common, it’s a stupid thing apprentices do, but it happens. I recognize the symptoms.”

Cassandra doesn’t seem convinced, but doesn’t pursue it. “Is he going to be alright?”

“The biggest danger in withdrawals is if he hurts himself in these attacks, if his heart spasms too suddenly, trying to compensate whatever high the lyrium provides.” Amell rests one palm against Cullen’s cold cheek, summoning a bit of heat in her fingers to warm him. The Commander’s breaths normalize, become deeper. “Does he take anything for the pain? Elfroot?”

“No. The stubborn man doesn’t want anything to slow down his senses,” Cassandra replies, frowning. “But this is the fastest he’s responded to a magical treatment. This is good. Most of our healers are not as proficient here, and so I came to you with this particularly nasty attack.”

With many mages scattered in the wind and in hiding, this revelation does not come as much a surprise. “What have you been doing to treat this before I came?”

“Endured.” Cullen’s voice comes out as a croak as he finally comes to. Cassandra and Amell give way as the Commander straightens up, resting his head against the cold stone wall. “It’s not always as bad as this.”

“Cullen. How are you feeling?” Cassandra asks, voice soft. The episode has clearly rattled the Seeker.

“I’ll be alright, Cassandra. Thank you.” He glances at Amell. She realizes that her hand is still on his face, and she draws it back hastily.

“Take this,” Amell instructs, remembering herself, taking the stopper off her potion bottle. “I understand you don’t like taking these kinds of potions, but after the episode you’ve had, I must insist.”

Cullen’s eyes are still on her even as he does as he’s instructed. She turns to Cassandra. “He needs to rest. No more exertions for the rest of the day.”

“Understood.”

Cullen struggles up. “No need to talk over me like I am an errant child,” he says, although it doesn’t have much bite to it after what had just transpired. Amell hooks one arm over her shoulder, Cassandra taking his other side. The soldier hovers nearby, uneasy.

“Where is his room?” Amell asks.

Cassandra gestures to the ladder extending over the ceiling.

“Are you kidding me?” Why would anyone even...but Cullen is already walking ahead without them, towards where his armor had been hastily discarded. The soldier rushes forward.

“Ser, is that a good idea? I mean...” the boy begins.

“You are dismissed.” Cullen says curtly. Then in a softer voice, he adds: “Thank you.”

The boy looks only too relieved to be let off the hook and leaves the room with a quick salute. The quick turn of events leaves Amell feeling a little shaky and unsure of herself. She chances a look at Cassandra, trying to decide on what she’ll do next.

“It’s never been this bad before,” Cassandra says to Cullen. “Maybe you should let the Warden-Commander take a look at you.”

He’s putting on his breastplate with obvious difficulty even as he hisses, “Cassandra, I told you, I’ll be fine. There are too many things to do for me to take a rest now.”

The Seeker sighs in disgust,  before throwing her hands in the air in a show of frustration. Amell can tell that the two have had this argument before, many times over. “Talk to him. Maybe he’ll see some sense coming from a healer,” Cassandra says to Amell as she stalks out of the room, closing the door behind her with a bang.

Great. Just great. Amell has half the mind to turn on her heel and just go. She didn’t ask for this, to be stuck in the middle of some quarrel she only half-understands and have everyone leave her to her own devices. But then she sees Cullen’s sagging shoulders, not trying to hide his pain anymore, and she finds herself stepping towards his direction.

“Here, let me help.” She busies herself with fastening the straps at his back, securing the breastplate into position. Then: “I’m sorry I had to use magic on you without your consent.” It’s something that she’s mindful of, even in her early years as a healer apprentice. Only dire circumstances and healing on the battlefield did she allow herself to proceed with treatment without the patient’s explicit consent. And with Cullen...it’s a bit more complicated. It involves things she’s not sure she has any right to ask about.

He sighs, and she can only guess at his expression now. “There is no need to apologize. You were asked to act on the spot, and Cassandra speaks for me when I am unable to speak for myself.”

Amell steps away and watches him put on one pauldron, layering himself in steel, making himself larger than life again. She realizes that this is the first time she’s seen him without his armor. “When did you stop taking lyrium?” she asks quietly.

“The moment I left the Templars,” he replies. She wonders if he minds, her asking him like this, but then she reminds herself that she is only asking in her capacity as a healer. He crouches to retrieve his other pauldron. “The episodes have never been this bad. Cassandra was caught off-guard, and overreacted. I apologize for that. I know you have other matters to attend to.”  

“I’m just glad I was here to help, but I need to understand your condition a little bit more to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” If he can even bear to look at her. As it is, she safely stays out of his line of sight. “What are your usual symptoms?”

“Headaches, nausea, a lack of focus,” he ticks them off one by one. “The lack of focus is particularly annoying. I hope we can fix that.”

So he’s open to treatment, after all. “You’ve long associated your focus with the lyrium, and your body instinctively looks for that,” she explains.

Cullen snorts derisively. “What part of me doesn’t look for lyrium on a daily basis? It’s a wonder Templars can still remember how to breathe without it.”

“It will take some time, and perhaps a doubled effort on focus to overcome it,” she says, although she knows these are not comforting words. His harsh tone surprises her, his scoff at Templar life. It occurs to Amell that she doesn’t know Cullen, doesn’t really know him, other than the definitions the Chantry had laid out for him, what he meant to her, as a Templar to a mage. Had they been friends? It’s hard to remember now, even with ten years behind them, to define what had been real and what had been imagined in the Circle Tower. She thought she knew Jowan. She thought she knew Irving. Everything had seemed to be just as it seemed until it wasn’t.

He fastens on on a gauntlet. “Is there anything else?” It’s astounding how much he can seem to shift back to pretending there’s nothing wrong with him, nothing at all. But he doesn’t turn to look at her.

“If I recall correctly, I was the one who was summoned here, Commander.” She doesn’t mean to sound irritable, but there it is. She’s a little tired of the push and pull. The afternoon light slanting in the room catches on his armor and into her eyes, and she steps out of its way. “As much as I don’t appreciate being dismissed out of hand, I think it would be better if I check up on you. Since I’m here anyway.”

That gets to him, and he sighs heavily and finally turns to face her. “I regret that you were even involved in the first place.This is not what you’re here for.”

She realizes that he hasn’t looked at her out of revulsion, but to hide the pain that still lingers on his features. This tugs a little at her heartstrings. “Look,” she holds a hand up as she steps closer to him, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I’m a healer, and this is what I do. I won’t force you on any kind of treatment. But what I just saw? That was bad. There are people depending on you. You can at least let me try.”

The truth is, Amell is starting to think that maybe she can’t save everyone, after all. Once upon a time, maybe she thought such a thing was possible. Time had proved her wrong, people and places slipping through her fingers like grains of sand. Catastrophes happen, the world continues to fall around her ears.

That doesn’t mean she couldn’t try.

Their eyes meet, and Cullen simply offers up one hand. “Can you help me with these?” She realizes that he’s trembling. She nods and draws nearer, and she helps him fasten the second gauntlet without saying anything. She can feel his eyes on her.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he finally says. “Maybe I do need your help. Perhaps after sundown, you can come see me?” His voice lowers gradually, until she can hardly hear him.

She can’t help but crack a smile at that. “Why are you whispering?”

Cullen blushes a deep red and takes a step back. “Maker’s breath. I--didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, not that I meant for it to mean something, I just--”

“Relax, I was just teasing.” She presses her lips together and smooths her skirt, trying to get a grip herself. It’s nice to see the traces of the Cullen she used to know, the shy Templar who always looked away. She can see a faint reflection of amusement in his eyes, however, and that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Maybe if for a second they can be as they were, however imagined...

“I--we should get back to work. I should apologize to Seeker Pentaghast. She did not look happy.”

“She didn’t.” Amell confirms. It’s good that there are people who care about him here. His self-imposed exile to Kirkwall marooned him in more ways that he realized. “I should get back to work. But I’ll see you later, alright?”

A ghost of a smile flits around his mouth. “I’ll see you later, Amell.” He steps out of the room, and she follows him moments after, watches him from the barracks as he makes way where Cassandra is already furiously hacking away at a hapless dummy.

A memory strays into her consciousness--Cullen’s first year in the Circle Tower, she had been passing by the Templars’ hall on her way to the First Enchanter’s office. She had heard laughing inside, and had chanced to glance in on Cullen, without his armor, sharing a joke with other Templars his age. It had been a startling view, and she had hurried off as if she had seen something forbidden. The Ferelden’s Circle had never been cruel, nor had abused their powers in any overt way under Greagoir’s watchful eye, but they had always been viewed with fear and wariness by mages. But that day she had seen him laugh, and it had brought a strange disquiet that years later, she still couldn't understand.

She hadn't expected to see him here, of all places, and that's disquieting, too.

The buzzing scratches at her mind, relentless. 


End file.
